Of Their Sweet Deaths
by NotYetBaroque-N
Summary: "You thrive in chaos, Sherlock. I wilt." Kate Hudson, a woman with a peculiar career comes face to face with the man who invented his career. When an opera singer and a consulting detective meet, could a romance result from such a pair? (Rated T for now, M later perhaps)
1. Chapter 1

"I don't believe this. I honestly don't fucking believe this." She spits as she hangs up her mobile phone. Instead of pocketing it, she holds it against her stomach as she paces back and forth. Three hours ago she had landed at the London City Airport. Right on schedule. Her phone plan didn't cover service overseas, which is why she'd been sure to arrange a ride prior to her departure from her hometown: Tulsa, Oklahoma. Her dear cousin, who resides in England, had happily agreed to pick her up from the airport, as well as provide lodging for as long as it took her to establish a residency in a temporary flat.

Kate Roberts was English-born but American-grown. Her parents had left England seemingly on a whim when she was six. And, while the English accent faded very quickly, the memories of the girl she had spent the earliest moments of her childhood with did not disappear. The two were pen pals ever since, and as technology advanced so did their connection an ocean apart. They were best friends. They shared secrets and fantasies and fears. Her cousin visited her in America now and then, but until now Kate had been too busy pursuing her career to take a break from North America. In fact, it is her career that led Kate to be in a terminal in London with no proper currency, no means of transportation, and no way to communicate with her relative. Her relative who is three hours late. Kate checks her phone again: 9:21pm in London, England. Battery life: 18%

Kate takes a few deep breaths, blinking away the glaze in her eyes that comes from a drastic time change and an obscenely long and sleepless flight. Her back is tense, and she struggles to keep the tremors racking her tired body at bay. There will be no rest anytime soon. She straightens her shoulders and lifts her phone once more, this time pulling up and old photo of her dear cousin. A commemoration of the day she'd been hired on at her job, five years ago. _Well, then,_ she muses. _I'm not about to stay here all night, then am I? I've got to give a certain someone a piece of my mind. And I've got just the faintest idea where she might be._

And with that, Kate Roberts grips the handle on her navy blue suitcase and marches through the revolving door and into the night. She can smell rain in the air. She prays it won't pour too hard. She has an audition tomorrow afternoon, and she certainly can't afford a cold.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Molly Hooper wills herself to say something, anything. There he stands, two feet from her, pale blue eyes peering through a microscope. His deep purple shirt has all but the top two buttons done up, and a pale collarbone peeks out into Molly's line of sight. His hair is lightly tousled, and every now and then she watches him brush it impatiently out of his eyes, his slender fingers raking the ebony locks back. Sometimes she's convinced she's memorized his every feature. _Coffee? No? That's fine. Perfectly fine. Another time, then perhaps._ Her lips silently mimic her thoughts with only the slightest movement, practicing for when she deigns to put a voice to her desires. Molly's hands fidget in front of her as she stands. She quickly straightens up when he inhales sharply and lifts his head.

With his eyes fixed on the ceiling, Sherlock Holmes finally addresses her. Or, at least, he speaks. To whom, exactly, is unclear.

"Ricin, as I suspected. How delightful. We have ourselves a historian with taste."

Molly can't help herself. "Sorry, historian?" she interjects. But Sherlock is already making his way across the room to where his coat is hung up by the door. He glances back as he snakes his hand into his coat pocket and slides out his phone. "Yes, indeed. Or a fan of history, to be sure. I'll explain it once the good inspector arrives. I do hate repeating myself, you understand." And with that the man puts his phone to his ear and summons Lestrade. Molly sighs. So much for alone time.

In under 20 minutes a disheveled Gregory Lestrade sweeps into the room with a thermos of home-brewed coffee. "Christ, Sherlock, this better be worth it, given the hour of night it is." He sets a hand firmly on the counter and leans forward expectantly as he catches his breath. With his other hand he lifts his thermos to his lips and takes a swig. He gulps and wipes his mouth with his wrist, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's.

Sherlock is leaning against a cabinet, his mouth upturned in a smirk. "Please, inspector. You ought to be thanking me, seeing as I got you out of that spat with your wife. Been spending too much time in the office, she says. I suppose that's my fault."

Lestrade grimaces and starts to respond, but he's interrupted quickly by Sherlock. "At any rate, it's late, so let's get to why I called you here. I've discovered something that may just lead us very quickly to the-

"Molly. Louisa. Hooper."

The three turn. In the doorway, drenched in rain and clutching her luggage, was a woman who looked anything but pleased to meet their acquaintance. Molly starts and bites her knuckle. "Good God, I forgot, didn't I? Don't tell me you walked all this way!"

The woman emits a low chuckle, bent over awkwardly. Then, without a warning, her legs seem to give out, and she collapses to the floor. Just like that, she's out like a light.

Molly rushes forward and kneels down. She checks the woman's pulse and holds her wrist over the unconscious woman's mouth to feel for breath. "She's out cold, isn't she, now?" Lestrade exclaims. "But who the devil is she? You know her?"

Molly nods solemnly, concern in her eyes. "I was supposed to pick her up from the airport hours ago, but I was, er- distracted. I feel so terrible." Molly brushes a strand of hair out of the woman's face. "Gentlemen, this is my cousin, Katelynn Roberts."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"At least her head landed on her case and not the floor," muses Lestrade. "or she'd be much angrier when she wakes up." He chuckles. "Course, the way she looked at you a minute ago, Molly, I'd say you're done for either way." Lestrade and Molly lift Katelynn up and deposit her on the window seat. Molly looks earnestly at her cousin's face, hoping for some indication that she'd wake soon. But it was clear that a long flight from America followed by hours of walking in the rain had drained Katelynn. She wouldn't be up for hearing an apology any time soon. Instead, the unconscious woman sighs and fidgets her way into a more comfortable position before settling down.

Lestrade straightens up and scratches his jaw stubble. "At any rate, we still have a murderer on the loose. Or so you seem to think, Mr. Holmes."

While all this had been occurring, Sherlock Holmes had remained distant from the situation. He remained lingering by the science equipment. His eyes were on the floor, but unfocused. At least, not focused on anything visible to the others. Molly tilted her head at him, waiting.

"Sherlock?"

He snapped out of it. A flood of words poured from his mouth, as though a boulder blocking a stream had finally loosened and been swept away. "Yes, of course it was murder. What else could it be-don't answer that. We've not the time. Murder!" He takes a step closer to the counter in front of him and places one hand on it firmly for balance. His right hand is raised, fingers splayed out, gesticulating in erratic patterns as he continues to speak.

"Wednesday, 2:26pm, 31-year-old math teacher is about to board a bus home from work when he feels a sudden, stinging sensation in his right thigh. A few hours later at home he's rubbing his leg through his trousers and notices a small bump where the stinging had occurred. He and his wife dismiss it as a wasp sting and put some ice on it. As the night draws near he's sweating from a high fever and his speech is slurred. He's taken to the hospital and treated for blood poisoning. He's dead by morning. Rapid onset heart failure. Our victim, Todd Crosby, is just as your reports determined, Lestrade. Average job, dull hobbies, faithful to his wife. No skeletons buried in dear Todd's closet. So how does a math teacher 'beloved by all' wind up downstairs in a drawer where it's good and cold?"

The room is silent for a moment. Lestrade blinks tiredly. "Would you just get on with it? Obviously it wasn't a wasp sting or you wouldn't be here chattering on excitedly. So what was it?"

Sherlock beams triumphantly. His lips part.

"An umbrella."


	4. Chapter 4

"A bloody _umbrella_?" cried Detective Lestrade, breaking the silence. "Don't get me wrong, I've seen an umbrella murder or two, but they're generally pissed off drunks bludgeoning someone outside a bar. This man had heart failure, not a skull fracture."

Molly nods in agreement, but waits patiently for Sherlock to explain. The rain outside had finally stopped, and now the room was silent aside from their voices and the sharp buzz of the cheap, fluorescent lighting. Somehow, without the pattering of rain on the window, Molly became more aware of the aching tension in her neck and knees. She'd been on her feet most of the day, and had missed out on her break earlier when Sherlock had burst in the room and insisted on her insight into a case. Molly knew well enough by now that he was really only needing her ID access in and out of the lab. He hardly ever asks for her thoughts. Still, she very well couldn't leave him alone with the equipment.

She sighs, retreating a bit into her thoughts. _What you mean is, silly, that you very well couldn't leave him alone, period._

Molly suddenly pops out of her reverie. She looks back down at her cousin, beside her on the sill. She'd spend so many long nights venting her frustrations to her online pen pal that eventually, it seemed, her inner voice of reason had developed Katelynn's sassy American lilt. Katelynn was a romantic, much like Molly, but was also headstrong and sensible when it came to relationships. She'd been spending the last several months trying to convince Molly to drop her 'Sherlock Infatuation'.

" _It's unhealthy."_ She'd insisted just the other day. " _Molly, my dearest love, you deserve someone who treats you like the strong, brilliant woman you are. Not someone who strings you along only to exploit your resources. If you're really so keen, then ask him for coffee and be done with it. Honestly, he sounds like a dick to me, but I can see you won't shut up until you try."_

Molly exhaled a small sigh through her nose, her eyes still on Kate. Then her heart tightened with guilt. _And to think it's because of my damn infatuation that she was left to fend for herself. God, I'm such a terrible friend._

A sharp, deep voice cuts into the quiet. "You may have never seen a case like this, detective, but Scotland Yard has witnessed this very plot before. Didn't they ever teach you about the Georgi Markov assassination in your many years of training?"

Lestrade squints, casting his eyes up in thought. "Markov…sounds Russian. Communist?"

Sherlock taps his fingernails on the counter impatiently, clearly bored. "No, no. Bulgarian. Easy mistake for you lot, I suppose. Georgi Markov was a writer and defector from the Communist regime in his country. Many of his works were banned in his country and eventually he felt safer moving to Italy to be with his brother. When he realized his relations with Bulgaria were not improving, he moved once again and made his home in England. Here, he only continued to make enemies, working as a radio speaker for BBC World Service. He was assassinated by a KGB operative in 1978. Still not ringing any bells, Lestrade?"

Lestrade's eyes widened in recognition. "I remember! The 'Umbrella Assassination!' The poor bloke thought he'd been stung by a wasp, and was dead four days later. We only know it was an umbrella because Markov recollected seeing a man pick up an umbrella and bolt away shortly after he'd been stung. He didn't think anything of it until it was too late. Some sort of device disguised that could quietly fire a ricin pellet into a person. It was genius."

Sherlock was clearly pleased. "Yes. Clever. But what we have here before us is merely an imitation. Our murderer is clearly an expert in weaponry design and perhaps even in history. Whoever it is, they love what they do. It took Markov four days to die, but our man dropped dead by morning." He smiled, his eyes practically twinkling. "He made improvements on the original design. A higher dosage of ricin, to be sure."

He straightens up, reaches for his jacket, and pulls it on. "In the morning, check your databases for the aforementioned qualities, and cross reference them with individuals who may have access to black market poisons like ricin. That is all."

"Brilliant as ever, Sherlock. We appreciate your help." Lestrade is clearly eager to get home for some rest, and makes as if to follow Sherlock out the door.

"Wait!"

All heads turn to the window sill. Katelynn is sitting upright, still blinking her tired eyes. Her hand is outstretched towards the two men. Molly immediately starts and sits down beside her, reaching her arm over Kate's shoulder in a comforting embrace.

Katelynn's eyes lock onto Sherlock's.

"If this killer is some kind of master assassin or weapons expert, then why the hell was he bent on killing some innocent schoolteacher?" Her lips purse in frustration. "What's his motive here? That's what matters, right? The _why_?"

This makes Sherlock pause, and he matches her gaze.

"Something tells me, Miss Katelynn Roberts, that you have an inkling of an idea, yourself. Care to share with the class?"

Author's Note: Sorry that it took so long to add these last two chapters. Please consider leaving a comment in the review section to let me know how I'm doing, and thanks for reading! 3 (also if anyone sees any typos or grammar errors please let me know)


	5. Chapter 5

Kate was suddenly very conscious of the eyes on her. She'd only been semi-aware that what she was hearing was an actual conversation. The discomfort of a hard window bench and the blaring hospital lighting had prevented her from entirely losing her grip on her surroundings. Though she'd been drifting in and out of consciousness, the words had rung in her head clear as a bell. Finally, she'd snapped back into reality as she heard quick footsteps moving toward the door. The question had escaped her lips before her eyes had fully adjusted to being open.

Her eyes focused. _Blue._ There were those eyes her friend had lovingly described. Sparkling blue. Calculating. Bored. _Bored?_

She shook her head slightly, blinking as she reexamined them. It seemed impossible for someone to be both interested and disinterested at once, but that's what she saw. Her gaze scanned his face. Sherlock was obviously blessed with some superior genetics. High cheekbones, dark hair, and a delicate mouth. There were creases on his forehead, but Kate suspected that they came from years of narrowing his eyes in contemplation rather than age. Even as she was thinking this, she noticed him furrow his brow in frustration. _Oh- yeah, fuck. He asked me a question._

"Right. The dead schoolteacher…er- God bless him, I guess. He was not the intended target." Kate said slowly, waiting for an affirmation of some kind. Sherlock, however, remained still, his eyes fixed on her.

Detective Lestrade was impatient. "Sorry, but I'd imagine it's awfully hard to miss when you're firing an umbrella point-blank into a man's thigh." He said exasperatedly.

Katelynn reddened a bit, but stayed firm to her theory. "Sorry, what I meant was, he wasn't- isn't, I guess- the intended target for the weapon. The incident with the schoolteacher was a trial run of the machinery. The killer wants the real deal to go smoothly, and he'll only have one shot at the true prey."

Sherlock was smiling now. Katelynn felt a small glow in her heart, similar to what she feels after a hard day's work. Validation is a sweet thing.

He spoke. "And how did you come to that conclusion, Ms. Roberts?" He slid his hands into his coat pockets and leaned against the open doorframe. He waited.

Katelynn shrugged. "You said yourself the maths teacher had a clean history. No enemies equals no one wanting to kill him. Simple."

Sherlock tutted his tongue. His tousled hair bounced as he shook his head "No, no. There was more. You're not a detective, and you wouldn't be so self-assured around professionals if you hadn't already approached it from multiple angles. You wouldn't have spoken up about something so, as you put it, 'simple'. Go on. Please."

Katelynn felt Molly's hand tighten on her shoulder. Molly's eyes were on Sherlock, and Kate could tell she was puzzled by Sherlock's sudden interest. Kate wanted to punch herself. She could have easily posed to theory to Molly, so she could offer it up and look impressive in front of Sherlock. _The spotlight calls me wherever I am. Selfish._ Still, it was too late for that route. She put her hand on Molly's leg and squeezed gently. This encounter would be forgotten in days.

Still a little shaky from lack of sleep, Kate continued. She looked down at the floor as she spoke. "Okay, well, I guess I also took note of the weapon of choice: Hand-crafted, well-designed, researched. Normally if someone's going to go out and kill a singular person at one time, it's pre-meditated. The killer loathes the man he wants to kill. It permeates his very being, and he's been dwelling on it for a while, given how long it would take to devise such a plan and make the weapon. This kind of time and effort wouldn't be wasted on someone that he didn't know, except as a practice run."

For a second time, she found herself looking up for Sherlock's approval. He raised his eyebrows at her. He wanted more. Kate straightened up, and her voice steadier than before. She didn't know why, but she was confident with her reasoning.

"Lastly, the killer chose ricin because ricin is slow, painful, and difficult to identify in time for a diagnosis. He wants the victim to suffer. But, he used a higher concentration of ricin on the schoolteacher because, while the trial run was necessary, there was no need for this random man to suffer as long. He'll only take pleasure in the kill once it strikes the intended target. Then he'll enjoy the show."

Kate allowed herself a small smile.

"But it's not opening night yet. Todd Crosby was the poor soul who earned the primary role in the dress rehearsal."


	6. Chapter 6

Kate's arrival at Molly's flat that night is mostly a blur. She remembers being lulled to sleep by the motion of the taxi her cousin hailed. She remembers being lightly shaken awake and urged out of the cab by a concerned Molly. And, ever so faintly, she recalls the sensation of her head falling against a pillow as she buried herself under the covers. Later, in the morning, she'll thank her past self for having the wisdom to set an alarm on her phone to wake her up at a reasonable hour, though she doesn't remember doing so.

At 9am, Katelynn Roberts' eyes snap open. A tune is lightly flowing out of her phone. Her hand reaches out on instinct and silences the alarm. Her gaze fixates on the ceiling; a ceiling unfamiliar to her. She takes a breath.

Her first thought is of her upcoming auditions. Sliding out of bed, she scans the room in search of her suitcase. Kate catches her reflection in a vanity mirror by the door. Her hair is a tangled mess from trotting around in the rain the night before, and her eye makeup she'd been too tired to remove is smeared. She grimaces, imagining how terrible she'd looked when she stormed through Molly's work and marched through the halls until she found the right room. _Not the greatest first impression to her coworkers, Katelynn._

When her search for her case comes up empty, Kate ventures out of the guest room and down a short, narrow hallway. She stops at the end of it and takes in the view of the small, tidy living room. Upon closer examination, Kate could tell that it has been recently and hastily cleaned. Papers and books are crammed in baskets and overflowing from mostly-closed desk drawers. The vacuum is still in the middle of the room, with the cord trailing the floor and the plug resting beneath an outlet. The decorative pillows for the sofa have half-price stickers on them. Kate chuckles to herself. _Glad to know I'm not the only mess in the family. Bless her for trying, though._

Kate spots her case nestled in the corner by the television. She lifts it, sets it on the coffee table, and unzips the main pocket. Her main audition dress, a simple red and black piece, is wrapped in plastic and attached to a hanger. She pulls it out and holds it up, examining it carefully for any wrinkles. Surprisingly, there are none. Kate checks the time on the cable box. 9:21am. Seven hours until her time slot for The Royal Opera. She inhales slowly. She has plenty of time.

Katelynn is fiddling with her suitcase to get it shut again when she hears the front door open and shut. She glances up. A sheepish Molly is leaning against the door, rocking back and forth on her heels, Her arms are laden with orange juice and a carry-out bag. She holds up the bag with her left hand. Cautiously, Molly bites her lip and says, "Apology breakfast?"

Suddenly, it's like the previous night's hellish experience comes charging back to the forefront of Kate's mind; A two hour walk through London after an arduous and sleepless flight. In the rain. In heels. She straightens her back and narrows her eyes at her cousin. Molly starts, but Kate sharply holds a finger up to silence her. She speaks, each word slicing through the air like a blade.

"Don't you ever-and I mean _ever,_ Molly Hooper-"

Kate can't keep herself from chuckling. She doubles over, taking in her cousin's look of incredulity.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry, but God, your fucking _face_! It was too good!" Kate wipes a tear from her eye. "I mean, don't get me wrong, last night sucked, and I'm gonna bring this up like- at _least_ every week for the next 2 years. But come on! I've missed your stupid scared puppy face! Come here!" With that, she runs over the door and gives her cousin a big awkward hug, the breakfast and juice trapped between them.

Molly remains perplexed. "You- you mean, you're not upset?" She eyes Kate, who by now is setting up their breakfast on the counter and rooting through the cabinets for glasses. She pulls out two, and teasingly pretends to blow dust out of one. Kate laughs and says, "It's not like I was on death's door, love. And even if I was, I fell at the feet of a very credible medical examiner, soooo…" She trails off. Her fingertips absentmindedly trace the part of her head that hit the case during last night's fall. It's slightly sensitive, but otherwise manageable.

Finally, the two women sit down and eat. The meal consists of sausage bagels, oatmeal, muffins, and fruit. "I didn't know what you'd like," Molly explains, "But I did remember that you like fruit juice!"

Kate smiles, sipping her orange juice. Later, she'll break it to her cousin that she is the least fond of orange juice, but in the meantime she is just overwhelmed with joy to see her old friend. "You're memory is impeccable as always. This is why you're the one who went to medical school." She winks at Molly, knowing her flattery will make her flustered.

As expected, Molly stammers, " Oh right, like you don't spend your life memorizing hours of German."

This launches the girls into the old, familiar banter that they were accustomed to. They spend the rest of the morning taking in the reality that they are no longer worlds away.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock Holmes is not the type to dwell on an encounter with a new face. After taking a few seconds to assess whether the individual poses any danger, Sherlock rarely finds any point in continuing with his assessment. Interests, personality, and even names fail to stick. At least, until the information proves useful.

 _Kate Hudson._

Sherlock blinks, surprised at himself. For all intents and purposes Kate's name was not useful. Her profession? Some form of theatre, and thus useless. Kate's only known helpful connection is Molly, and well, Sherlock is already well in her good graces. And, aside from perhaps poking into the lab occasionally, it is unlikely that Kate will be in Sherlock's vicinity for any prolonged period. Yet, he remembers her name. Furthermore, it has been sliding through his mind constantly since her departure yesterday evening.

He glances up from his newspaper and observes as Mrs. Hudson toddles in with a tray of tea and some biscuits. The clock on the mantle reads 4:00pm.

"You know, dear, just because you have less company nowadays, doesn't mean you can leave all of this rubbish sitting about. Honestly, what have you done to this poor kitchen? It looks like a war zone!" She huffs and fusses about, clearing a space for the tray on the table.

"If it were a war zone, dear Mrs. Hudson, perhaps life would be less dull, and my kitchen need not be so stuffed with ways to occupy my time. Care for a go at Cluedo?" He perks up briefly at the prospect, but his expression quickly sours when his landlady throws her hands up in refusal and makes for the door.

"Just take some of this garbage out tonight, will you?" she says pointedly, not sticking around for an answer.

Sherlock tilts his head, closing the newspaper and folding it on his lap. He acknowledges that the flat's tidiness has been at the bottom of his priority list as of late. Sunlight is streaming through a gap in the curtains. He can see the dust lingering in the air.

He's been without a flatmate for quite some time. John, a working single parent, rarely has the time to scramble together for a visit. John has opted to refrain from any further cases, lest his child wind up orphaned someday. It hurt Sherlock to hear, but after Mary's loss, he couldn't fault his friend. When they do meet up, it's usually at John's home. Thus, Mr. Holmes' flat's only visitors are his customers. It comes as a surprise to no one that Sherlock does not deem them worth cleaning up for.

His train of thought slips back to Kate. Yesterday, it had taken him less than two seconds to assess that she was in the entertainment field. Her soaked dress and muddy heels were a good impression gone wrong. Anyone with a drop of sense in them would know not to dress that way for an international flight. Comfort first, after all. But performers are vain and prideful. And it was her pride that had kept her from taking even a few minutes at the airport to change into something more sensible before making the walk to Molly's lab. Kate's flair for the dramatic meant, despite her awful night, meant that she took some happiness in the shock factor of her arrival. She was pleased to make a memorable entrance.

Sherlock must give her credit; She was memorable, indeed. Her insightful analysis of the criminal was a surprise even to the consulting detective himself. Exhausted, hungry, and half-unconscious, she'd managed to pick up on the most minute details that Sherlock himself had been too hasty to catch in his initial findings. She's clever. _Brilliant, even._

It hits Sherlock like a jolt to the brain: he remembers her because she could possibly be of use to him in the case! _If she could ascertain that much while indisposed, perhaps there's more she could extrapolate after she's rested._ He just needs to find her.

An American performer visiting England is undoubtedly here to audition for a chance to perform at one of London's reputable theaters. Her build is not suited for a dancer. She's far too short, and her muscles are too underdeveloped for any kind of strenuous physical movement. That eliminates dance companies and musical theatre groups. But, the lilt in her voice is undeniably musical. So she sings, but doesn't dance.

Sherlock's brow furrows. Assuming her audition is today, she could be at any one of a dozen television networks, performance venues, or company call-backs occurring in London. Alternatively, she could be with Molly.

He doesn't have the patience today to dig for details on his own. Pulling out his phone, he dials Molly's number and waits for her to pick up.

"H-Hello? Sherlock?"

"Good afternoon, Molly. I've no time. Where is your cousin, at present?"

"Katie? She's at an audition, but why do you-"

Impatient, he cuts her off.

"I need her expertise for a case. What studio or network is she auditioning for? BBC?"

There's a pause on the line as Molly tries to process the bizarre nature of this call. But after all these years, she's learned he doesn't ask for information or favors without reason. Still, she can't help but feel a twinge of jealousy as she taps the speaker button on her cell and begins scrolling through old text messages from her cousin.

" I can't remember where she is from the top of my head...one moment...ah!"

Her eyes skim a message from a week ago and land on the name of a venue.

"Her audition is at the Royal Opera House." She sighs. "In hindsight, I can't believe I forgot something so important. She's been on edge about it for nearly a month."

Sherlock smiles. "Thank you, Molly." and hangs up before she has a chance to respond.

 _An opera singer._ She's surprised him yet again. Still musing, he slides on his coat and scarf and strides down the stairs to call a cab.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Kate Roberts takes a deep breath. As she makes her way down the hallway, she is acutely aware of how loud her high heels clamor on the linoleum with each step. She tries to soften the blows of her shoes hitting the floor, but instead stumbles awkwardly. The walls of the hallway are lined with benches, and occupying every last seat are steely-eyed musicians. A few of them glance up and raise their eyebrows before returning to their business. Kate knows they're not really being disdainful, but she can't help but feel judged as she continues to peer down the hall in search of a place to rest her feet. She finds nothing.

Kate sighs inwardly. Her audition isn't for another twenty minutes. She warmed up in the car, and she feels more prepared than she's ever been. Still, this is a top company, and the competition is fierce. For all she knows, the judges may already have a singer in mind. And even if they don't, most of the performers who make it to the in-person auditions are conservatory queens. They have music drilled into their very being. Compared to them, Kate is equipped with a low-brow education from a small music school.

Kate finds herself trembling. The physical response to stress is involuntary, and Kate knows perfectly well that, should this audition not well, there are plenty of other companies in the U.S. poised to offer her a job. But this is her first official step into international musical waters, and she's determined to do well. After sending out countless applications, resumes, and recordings, she's managed to scrape together one audition here in London. Just one.

With a shaky breath, she pulls up her phone's home screen. Eighteen minutes. Her eyes graze the burgundy walls until they land on the closest natural light source: a glass door leading into a small, decorative courtyard. The hallway is stifling. Shrugging off her winter coat, she leaves it and her briefcase against a wall and marches outside.

The sharp, chill air catches in her throat, and she realizes that she's on the verge of panicking. Her mind falls to her first piece. _Oh, Christ, what are the words? What are the_ fucking _words?_

She clutches at her phone instinctively and tries to let the crisp air filling her lungs soothe her. _No, you don't need to google this, Kate. You've been singing this aria for six years!_

Sunlight is streaming from between the barren branches of a young alder tree resting in the center of the grassy space. A small, stone path leads to a bench beneath the tree. Kate's feet guide her mindlessly toward it. Instead of sitting, she steps behind it and grips the back of it with two hands. It's cold to the touch. She closes her eyes and tries again to steady her heartbeat.

Like a slap to her face, the words of her aria return to her. The first two lines roll across her eyes in a vicious cycle, like they're trying to imprint themselves onto the forefront of her mind. Her lips start moving in tandem with the music that's flying through her mind. Her hand curls. A manicured fingernail taps the bench to the melody. Kate's eyes open.

Kate casts her eyes once again to the sky and sends a thank you to the universe. She levels her head to the ground and pivots herself back towards the entrance to the office building. Her back straightens and this time her feet don't stumble. In a few quick strides she's back at the door. Her arm reaches out for the handle, but to her surprise the door swings open and a figure emerges and blocks her entry.

Sunlight reflecting on the door had prevented her from noticing anyone inside, but now that he stands a mere two feet from her, he is unmistakable. Sherlock Holmes.

The consulting detective beams at her, one arm casually keeping the door open and the other supporting his weight on the doorframe. His smile is wide, but his words are rushed. "Good afternoon, Miss Roberts. Care for a stroll?"


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Kate Roberts is a fairly well-tempered woman. However, 8 minutes before the most important audition of her career to date, she is not someone to be messed with.

"Not today," she says tersely. "Excuse me."

Kate makes as though she's going to push past Sherlock by going under his arm, but he leans across the gap to stop her. She narrows her eyes at him.

"What's your game, Sherlock? I have somewhere to be."

"Simple, really. I need your assistance for a case"

"And I'd be helping you by...serenading your suspects?" She asks, clearly not amused.

"No, actually. You'd be assisting me in the analysis and interrogation of suspects."

Kate lays a hand on her hip and purses her lips.

"I'm a musician, not a police agent. Whatever it is you need, I can't help you. And, in case you haven't noticed, this is not a good time. I have a job to secure. Step aside."

Sherlock complies, and Kate passes through the door. He grabs her wrist. She stops, but does not turn to face him. He speaks.

"What you're doing, opera, is of little consequence to humanity. The job you so eagerly seek doesn't affect change. It doesn't put criminals behind bars, allay the pain of victims, or save lives. At best, performing as you do serves as a distraction from how utterly useless the common man is. At worst, you serve yourself. You seek praise and adulation bestowed without legitimate cause. As jobs go, that's not half bad. But are you truly satisfied?"

Kate stiffens, but remains silent. Sherlock continues, his eyes on her.

"What I'm offering you is heroism. Purpose. Your ability to deduce motive is remarkable, and I hypothesize that, with your help, London could see fewer miscreants on the street. Some people would jump at this opportunity." He smiles. "I know Molly would."

Kate's back straightens and she whips around, closing the small gap between them. She yanks her arm out of his grasp and wraps her hand around the lapel of his coat to pull his face closer to hers. She glowers at him, and he's taken aback by the raw anger in her eyes. She speaks very quietly to where no one could understand her but him, articulating every word with a biting tone.

"Don't you dare presume to know me _or_ my cousin. Molly may follow you around like a doting puppy for now, but once she drops you like the burden you are you'll realize _just_ how much she sacrificed to keep you satisfied. She is a brilliant, bold, independent woman and I see little reason for her to be hung up over an arrogant detective who fails to recognize just how little he'd accomplish on his own. And if you think for _one_ moment that I would drop _everything_ going on in my life to follow your every whim, think again. Try being grateful for who you _have_ before you try to drag someone else into your web. And one. More. Thing. I-"

"Roberts, Kate?"

Kate quickly releases his coat and turns to face the speaker. A frazzled, bespectacled intern is at the opposite end of the hallway, clipboard in hand. He peers around the other musicians, awaiting a reaction, and repeats her name.

"Yes, that's me," Kate calls out anxiously. "Just let me grab my music."

She makes her way hastily to where she'd left her belongings and grabs her case. She faces away from the intern so she can slyly reapply her lip gloss without seeming like she was wasting time with vanity. Rising with briefcase in hand, she gives Sherlock Holmes one last scathing look before following the intern down the hall and to the audition room.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Rose giggles. Her big blue eyes peer up at her father, who has a fresh clump of mushed peas on his jumper. She kicks out her legs happily in her high-chair.

John Watson straightens up and sighs, resigned. Pivoting to face the sink, John warily eyes the pile of dishes and bottles spilling out onto the counter. _Perhaps I can offer the nanny extra pay for tomorrow to run the dishwasher a few times._ He rubs one tired shoulder, thinking as he reaches over with his other hand and grabs a clean rag. He wets it, then sets about dabbing off his daughter's dinner. Behind him, a spoon clatters on the floor noisily, followed by a shriek of delight. John grimaces. _Fourth time she's thrown it tonight._

Suddenly, John catches movement in the reflection of the window just above the sink and whirls around, his mind already leaping to where the closest knife may be. His fighting stance immediately slumps.

"Great," John says tiredly. "Now there's two of you!'

Sherlock Holmes is standing behind his goddaughter, dangling a large stuffed hedgehog above her head. Rose is craning her head, grabbing for it eagerly. He wiggles it in front of her, then places it on the table out of her reach. She eyes it for a moment, then gives Sherlock the most pleading look an infant can muster.

"After dinner." he chides.

John clears his throat.

"It's already dark out, Sherlock. I need to put Rose to bed in a bit. What is it?"

Sherlock stiffens for a moment, then lets out a long breath. He steps forward and bends over, sweeping the spoon off of the tiles in one fluid moment. He rolls it around his hand with his fingers, then grips it and uses it to point at his best friend.

"I need that brain of yours, John." He says tersely.

John backs away and throws his hands in the air in refusal.

"No, no. We've been over this, Sherlock. I'm retired as your sidekick. No more heroics for me. I-"

"You need to save all of your energy for the heroics of fatherhood, yes, I've heard it all before, and I understand," He cuts him off. "Your safety and ability to raise Rose is what's important here. But, for tonight John I need your brain. No leaping across rooftops or cascading down waterfalls in South America this time."

John's eyebrows snap together. Sherlock is clearly agitated by something. Still, John can't help but be relieved that his friend is no longer attempting to recruit him for his cases.

He takes a seat in a chair by Rose and across from Sherlock, using the brief lull to settle in and resume feeding her, this time with a different spoon. Finally, he looks up at Sherlock.

"What is it, then? What could you possibly need me for? Military expertise? Medical advice?"

"No, nothing so simple." Sherlock says vaguely.

John is making faces at his daughter, spooning the remainder of the peas into her mouth. The wind whistles through the window, and a branch taps rhythmically on the glass.

"Oh?" John says, encouragingly. There is no response. He glances up to find Sherlock seemingly lost in thought. He exhales through his nose.

"I don't have all night, Sherlock. Just tell me what you need my brain for, will you? Tell me what the great Sherlock Holmes can't fathom on his own."

Sherlock snaps out of it. _Funny how praise always seems to work,_ John ponders wryly. Finally his friend replies, with an air of frustration.

"People."


End file.
